The Lobacheva household buzzed with the usual Sunday morning chaos. The scent of blini lingered in the air, mingling with the faint tang of Olga’s black coffee. Eleven-year-old Sasha, perched on the kitchen counter with her legs swinging, popped a strawberry into her mouth and fixed her mother with a sly, knowing grin.
“Mom,” she began, her tone dripping with casual mischief, “you know how you’re always saying we need to ‘broaden our horizons’ or whatever? Well, I’ve got just the thing.”
Olga, mid-sip of her coffee, raised a skeptical brow over the rim of her mug. At thirty-five, she was a woman of sharp edges and sharper wit, her dark hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun. She ran her own accounting firm, and her patience for nonsense was famously thin—except when it came to Sasha, who somehow always managed to wriggle under her defenses.
“Oh, do you now?” Olga drawled, setting the mug down with a deliberate clink. “And what grand adventure is my little mastermind cooking up this time? Another attempt to convince me to adopt a ferret?”
Sasha rolled her eyes dramatically, twirling a strand of her chestnut hair around her finger. “No, boring. I’m talking about something *fun*. My friends at school were whispering about this place—a children’s foot-tickling salon. Like, a real thing. You go, they tickle your feet, and apparently, it’s hilarious. I wanna try it.”
Olga blinked, her expression frozen somewhere between shock and amusement. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter, her gaze narrowing. “A… foot-tickling salon. For children. Sasha, are you pulling my leg, or did you just stumble into the weirdest corner of the internet?”
Sasha grinned wider, undeterred. She hopped off the counter, landing with a dramatic flourish, and crossed her arms. “Nope, it’s real. Katya went last week and said she laughed so hard she almost cried. Come on, Mom, don’t be such a snooze. You’re always working or organizing or whatever. Live a little! Or are you scared you’d be too ticklish yourself?”
Olga’s lips twitched, fighting a smile. “Oh, I see how it is. You think you can bait me with that cheeky little mouth of yours? I’ll have you know I’m made of steel, kiddo. No tickle could crack me.”
“Prove it, then,” Sasha shot back, her hazel eyes glinting with challenge. “Let’s check it out together. Unless you’re chicken. Bawk bawk.”
Olga let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. “You’re impossible. Fine, I’ll look into it. But if this turns out to be some kind of scam or weird cult, you’re grounded until you’re thirty. Deal?”
Sasha stuck out her hand with mock solemnity. “Deal. But only if you promise not to embarrass me by giggling like a hyena when they tickle you.”
“Brat,” Olga muttered, but her eyes were warm as she shook her daughter’s hand.
---
Later that afternoon, the two sat huddled at the family laptop in the cluttered living room, surrounded by mismatched throw pillows and half-finished craft projects. Olga had found the salon’s page on a VK group, a quirky little community with pastel graphics and oddly specific rules for application. The process was as bizarre as the concept itself: a detailed form, a photo of the child’s feet, and a list of tickling preferences. Olga’s brow furrowed as she scrolled through the instructions, muttering under her breath about “the internet being a strange place.”
Sasha, sprawled on the couch with her legs dangling over the armrest, peered over her mother’s shoulder. “What’s it say? Do I have to write an essay on why I deserve to be tickled or something?”
Olga snorted. “Close. They want your age, school, hobbies, and—get this—your ‘preferred tickling style.’ What even is that? Are we talking feather dusters or full-on finger assaults?”
Sasha cackled, kicking her feet in the air. “Oh, definitely feathers for me. I’m classy like that. What about you, Mom? You strike me as a ‘scream and flail’ kinda gal.”
“Keep it up, smartass, and I’ll tickle you right now with no fancy salon needed,” Olga retorted, though her smirk betrayed her amusement. “Alright, let’s get this over with. They need a photo of your feet. Apparently, it’s for ‘assessment purposes.’ I swear, if this ends up on some creepy forum, I’m suing everyone.”
Sasha sat up, wiggling her toes with exaggerated flair. “Fine, but you better make me look good. No blurry shots, okay? I’ve got cute feet, and I want them to shine.”
Olga rolled her eyes, grabbing her phone. “Cute feet, huh? You’re a diva in training. Alright, put ‘em up on the coffee table. And stop moving, or you’ll look like you’ve got ten blurry toes.”
Sasha propped her feet up, her soles pale and smooth, with a faint dusting of freckles across the tops. She painted her toenails a bright teal just the day before, and she wasn’t shy about showing them off. “Angle it right, Mom. Get the light. Make ‘em look Instagram-worthy.”
“You’re insufferable,” Olga muttered, snapping a few shots. She tilted the phone, squinting at the screen. “There. Happy now? Your feet look like they belong in a museum. ‘Portrait of a Preteen’s Pedicure, 2023.’”
Sasha leaned over to inspect the photo, nodding approvingly. “Not bad for an amateur. You’ve got potential. Now, what else do they need? My life story?”
Olga scrolled through the form, typing with brisk efficiency. “Let’s see… Age: eleven. School: Gymnasium No. 14. Hobbies: annoying your mother, apparently. And tickling preferences: feathers, light touch, no creepy vibes. Sound about right?”
“Perfect,” Sasha said, lounging back with a smug grin. “You’re getting the hang of this, Mom. Maybe you’ve got a wild side after all.”
Olga shot her a mock glare. “Don’t push your luck, kid. I’m doing this under duress. You owe me big time. Ice cream, chores, the works.”
“Deal,” Sasha chirped, though her tone suggested she had no intention of following through. “Now hit send before you chicken out.”
With a dramatic sigh, Olga clicked the submit button, the screen flashing a confirmation message. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “There. Done. If this salon turns out to be a front for something weird, I’m blaming you.”
Sasha smirked, swinging her legs off the couch. “Relax, Mom. It’s gonna be hilarious. You’ll thank me when you’re laughing so hard you can’t breathe.”
Olga opened her mouth to retort, but before she could, the laptop pinged with a new notification. Her eyes widened as she leaned forward, reading the message aloud. “Congratulations, Sasha Lobacheva. Your application has been accepted. We look forward to welcoming you to Tickle Tykes Salon for an unforgettable experience. Please confirm your appointment slot below.”
Sasha let out a triumphant whoop, punching the air. “See? Told you! We’re in! Get ready, Mom. Things are about to get ticklish.”
Olga stared at the screen, a mix of dread and reluctant curiosity flickering across her face. What had she just signed them up for?
To be continued…
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